


A Thing With Wings

by Eclectic_Goddess



Category: Spartacus: Gods of the Arena
Genre: First Time, Gladiators, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:57:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eclectic_Goddess/pseuds/Eclectic_Goddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barca sees something he wants, and he knows how to get it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thing With Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Set between "Gods of the Arena" and "Blood and Sand".
> 
> Written March 2012. Previously posted on Livejournal.

“Boy! Water!”

Barca leaned on his spear and watched as the slave glanced toward Doctore, then hurried to the water barrel. Beside him, Crixus sighed.

“Never have I known you to have such thirst, Barca. Perhaps you are ill, and ought to visit the medicus.”

Barca grinned. “Perhaps, but I have doubt that the medicus has any herb for my illness.”

The boy, Pietros, approached with dripping cup held out as if an offering. Barca took it and drank slowly. His gaze never left the boy, and the boy’s eyes never rose from the sand.

When the cup had been returned and Pietros scampered away, Barca lifted his spear and turned to square off with Crixus once more. The Gaul shook his head even as he smiled.

“I never took you for a lover of boys.”

Barca raised an eyebrow. “Have your victories in the arena become so many that you forget your first, and the man you slew for it?”

Crixus’s smile faded, and Barca felt a twinge of guilt. Auctus’s death had stood between them for many months, even after Barca offered his forgiveness. He sometimes wondered if their friendship was built as much on that willingness to forgive than their mutual respect.

“Apologies…”

Barca waved him off.

“My meaning was only that Auctus was hardly a boy. I thought you preferred a lover who could…give as well as take.”

“Ah, but with the right persuasion, even Auctus had many boyish qualities.”

Crixus shook his head even as Barca chuckled.

“Besides, who would you have me pursue? One of these wretched shits?” Barca gestured to the men around them and spat into the sand. “Not one of them is a worthy sheath to my sword.”

“Not one?”

“Well, perhaps one,” Barca said slyly. “But you have never offered to spread cheeks for me, and one grows tired of waiting.”

Barca brought his spear up quickly to jab at Crixus’s groin, and Crixus knocked it away with his sword. He followed it up with a slash at Barca’s head, which Barca ducked beneath.

Their laugher and the clash of sword against spear rang out across the yard, and Pietros lifted his eyes to watch them.

~

The crowd’s roar still rang in Barca’s ears as he was brought before Batiatus, Crixus again at his side. Both of them were covered in sweat, filth and blood. Blood not their own, though Crixus limped on swollen knee and Barca’s ribs throbbed with every breath.

“Once more, you do honor to this house!” Batiatus beamed at them. “Crixus, still undefeated! Barca, a man who again stands far above the crowd!”

The crowd this day had been 10 men, the last one standing deemed winner. Barca had been the lone gladiator from the house of Batiatus, the only without ally, and yet he had triumphed. Four of the others had been men of Solonius’s house, and they would fight no more, the cause of Batiatus’s particular glee.

“I will see you both well rewarded! Wine, of course, and a day of rest tomorrow. What else would you ask of me? Food? Whores? You shall have all that you desire this night.”

“Victory is reward enough, Dominus,” Crixus answered. “Another chance to add to the glory of the house of Batiatus.”

Batiatus came around the table to clap hand to the Gaul’s shoulder. “Well spoken, Crixus! Well spoken. But I will see you to wine and food, at the least, and some extra coin for your purse, to spend on what you will.”

“Gratitude, Dominus.”

“Now, Barca. Do you too only seek to pad my honor, or do you seek baser rewards?”

Barca had been waiting for this moment for some weeks now, and found it difficult to keep his voice and expression level. “There is something, Dominus, though it seems too great a thing to ask. But as you speak of that which we desire…”

“Yes, yes, go on.”

“There is a slave, Pietros.” Barca saw the corner of Crixus’s mouth twist upward but ignored him. “He catches the eye, and stirs the loins.”

Batiatus nodded. “I know the boy of which you speak. If you wish him for the evening, it is a small thing. Wish no more. He is yours.”

“Apologies, Dominus,” Barca said quickly. “But it is not for the evening that I would have him.”

Batiatus expression turned thoughtful, and he did not see Crixus roll his eyes.

~

Barca was tending to his birds when the boy came. He heard his soft footsteps on the stone, hesitating and careful. He smiled, but did not turn until the boy spoke.

“Apologies…”

Pietros stood in the doorway, a flagon of wine in his hands. His gaze skittered from the birds in their cages to Barca’s sandals to the narrow bed and quickly back to the birds again.

“The Dominus sends me, with wine for you.”

“Then pour it,” Barca returned a bird to its cage. “For we have much to celebrate.”

The boy did not answer that, fumbling to open the flagon. Barca watched him pour a cup, but did not go to retrieve it. Instead, he waited for Pietros to carry it over to him. When the boy offered the cup, he took it and his wrist, drawing him in closer.

“Do you know what we celebrate?”

Pietros swallowed hard and nodded.

“Can you not speak of it?” Barca tightened his grip on Pietros’s wrist. Not enough to hurt, just enough to draw his attention.

“Dominus orders me to serve you when I do not serve in the yard,” Pietros said quickly. “He says I am to take my meals with you, to attend you in the bath, and to spend my nights here with you.”

“You forget the birds.”

Finally, Pietros’s eyes rose to meet Barca’s in confusion. “What?”

“I require help with my birds. They must be fed and watered, and their cages must be kept clean. It is a difficult thing to attend to as well as my training. I require assistance.”

“Oh. Yes. The birds.”

Barca could not help it. He laughed, long and hard. When he was done laughing, he drained the cup of wine, then kissed Pietros firmly on the lips. He kept kissing him, past the confusion, through the startled rigidity, and to the point where the boy’s hand nervously crept up to touch his arm.

“Be at ease,” he said when they parted, done laughing. “I would no more do you harm than one of the birds, and they are dear to me.”

Pietros nodded, though there was still something like fear in his expression. Barca took the wine from him and poured another cup. This one, he offered to Pietros.

“Come, let us drink and become better acquainted.”

~

“How was it you came to the ludus? It is obvious you have been a slave for some time.”

They had settled on Barca’s narrow bed. Pietros perched at the edge, his hands nervously plucking at the frayed threads of the blanket. Barca wanted to seize him and bring him closer, but there was time enough for that.

“All my life. My mother was a slave.” Pietros sipped at the cup of wine before passing it back to Barca. “I grew up in a villa to the south of Neapolis. My master was a Magistrate named Kolonius.”

“I have heard of him. It is said his influence is matched only by his profound ugliness.”

Pietros turned his head away to hide a smile.

“And why was it that you left his house?”

“Kolonius will bear no male slave to remain when they approach manhood. His wife is much younger than he, and more beautiful, and he fears that she will find a lover among them who will satisfy her better than her husband.”

Barca roared laughter, thinking of the many times Crixus was summoned to the villa while Batiatus was away, and the smug look Lucretia often wore after his return. Pietros ducked his head, but Barca could see him grinning as well.

“Did this tactic work?” he asked, straightening to hold out empty cup. Pietros moved to refill it. “Did his wife remain pure to the touch of another man?”

“She did, though…she seemed to enjoy the touch of her female slaves at every opportunity.”

Barca laughed again and threw his arm around Pietros’s shoulders. He was gratified when the boy neither stiffened, nor moved away.

“Well, I am in the fool’s debt, for I much prefer you here than far away south of Neapolis.”

“As do I.”

“Yes?”

Pietros nodded, and Barca suspected that it was only the darkness that hid the blush on his cheek. He lifted a hand to press his fingers there, feeling the smoothness of his jaw and the warmth of his skin. Pietros took a slow deep breath and turned to him. He nodded, a movement so small it was more felt than seen, and Barca leaned closer to kiss him once more.

~

Barca did not ask if Pietros had been with another man. He had never been with a man like Barca, and that was enough.

He stood willingly to allow Barca to undress him, unwinding the cloth around his narrow waist and tugging the trousers down for him to step out of. Barca wished that he’d asked for candles, that he might better drink in the sight of him, but he settled for running his fingers along the angles of his hips, the soft plane of his belly, the curve of his ass. He chased tremors through the boy’s skin with kisses, tasting places that had never known lips.

Pietros’s eyes drifted nervously away when Barca began to remove his subligaria, but Barca caught his jaw with one hand and resolutely held his gaze as he stripped off the last of the barriers between them. He guided him down onto the bed with a gentle word, and, finally, he had the boy beneath him.

At first, Pietros returned kisses and caresses uncertainly. Barca encouraged him with whispers, guiding his hand when he hesitated, groaning as deft fingers found their confidence. Soon, sweat slicked their bodies so that they slid together without friction. Barca ground down, his cock finding the crease of the boy’s thigh, and was reassured when Pietros arched up in response.

He could turn him over and push into him, fuck him properly. Maybe he could use his mouth first, finally feel those lips on his cock. He could do anything he wanted. Whatever Batiatus might think, Pietros was his now.

His.

Barca adjusted his weight and reached down to pull one of Pietros’s legs up over his hip. Their cocks slid together, and Pietros gasped. His hands scrabbled at Barca’s back, seeking purchase.

“Not yet,” Barca whispered into his mouth. “You must wait for me.”

There was a moment when Barca wasn’t sure he’d be able, but Pietros took a harsh, rasping breath, and forced himself to still. Barca rewarded him with a kiss.

“That’s good. Good boy. We have no cause to hurry. Every night from now until the afterlife is ours. We will make the most of them.”

 

THE END


End file.
